


If the witches don't eat you, it's home.

by xavie



Category: Memory Sorrow and Thorn - Tad Williams
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xavie/pseuds/xavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How could he tell his father that his son was a coward? Afraid of a woman? He couldn't. He wouldn't. It was as simple as that. An owl hooted and had to watch its prey scurry into the leaves as Isgrimnur shouted out his frustration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the witches don't eat you, it's home.

**Author's Note:**

> I have foolishly given Tad Williams the idea that the lack of fanfiction of his works is due to the high quality of his writing. Now I'm afraid that inflating his ego like that might be bad for his health and I hope to be able to provide a cure. Consider this story the answer to a silent challenge.

'Peace.' Isgrimnur thought as he rode north with his men in the shadow of Aldheorte forest. 'Finally there will be peace.' The journey from Erkynland back to Elvritshalla had been a joyous affair. His men had been - just as he – deeply impressed with the new King John and they were in high spirits, laughing and singing, carried by the feeling of a new beginning. King John was a fervid warrior who raised fear in his enemies and passion in his followers. They had fought side on side, drunk on power and victory, and in the heat of the battle sworn each other ever-lasting loyalty and friendship. But there was more – John was not only an admirable ruler, confident and just, but also an inspiring leader of the new faith whose words would leave no man untouched.

Yes, the new faith... Isgrimnur ground his teeth. How did you tell your father that you and the men he had sent out with you to negotiate your people's sovereignty, had abandoned the age-old gods and bent your knee before a naked man hanging from a tree?

Could he talk to his father of John's inspiring words that made the new god seem bright and strong while the old gods withered in the north? Of John's steel-blue eyes that shone with a fervent light when he spoke of Usires Aedon? Of his sonorous voice when he laughed and praised God's glory for their victory? How Isgrimnur wanted to be part of this, how he wanted to follow him. He wanted to keep seeing John's wild grin in the expectation of battle. See the sunshine on his golden hair and his callous hand wiping a sweaty lock from his forehead as he kicked his horse into a gallop to ride for another attack. Wanted to watch the same hand bringing a mug of beer to his mouth – oh, his mouth – at the evening's feast and drops of beer spilling over his lips before John's tongue slid out and caught them (an altogether unroyal and incredibly charming gesture).

Isgrimnur snorted and kicked his horse harder. No, this certainly wasn't what he could tell his father.

++

So, maybe he wasn't completely joyous, but his men definitely were and he had enjoyed the evenings of comradeship around the fire. The boyish challenges that the men set each other while hunting. The silent competition to find the most sneaky and subtle way to burden young Ecgwine with the chore of cleaning the dishes every single night. The songs and stories about love and pretty girls he enjoyed less, however. Several of the men were married at home and others had a sweetheart they were longing to see again. There was a lot of bragging and comparing and commiserating of the kind that Isgrimnur would have gladly joined in, if his own love life hadn't been in such peril. Instead he mumbled wordless curses into his beard and brooded.

“She's not as bad as you think, that Gutrun!” Leofric called and slapped Isgrimnur's shoulder hard. Young Ecgwine here tells me he's seen her naked at the river and boy, she's something.” He moved his hands in front of himself to illustrate his point. Isgrimnur knotted his eyebrows. How did you tell your father that you didn't want to marry the kind-hearted, sensible, shapely daughter of his best friend without offending either the woman, her father or your own? As he had established, mentioning John's sword hand wasn't an option, neither would have been voicing the wish to become a Usires brother, clearly. Isgrimnur snarled.

++

It wasn't that he disliked women in general, nor Gutrun in particular. Not at all, in fact. It was simply that he hadn't yet … No, he couldn't say that to his father either. He did like her – the way she swayed her wide bottom when she carried the water up to the hall. Her silken curls, so unlike John's, that fell long and gleaming over her pink breasts (yes, young Ecgwine wasn't the only one who had gotten an eye-full that day at the river). Her more wiry curls that had alternately stuck to her skin and swam lose like fine cloud in the water as the waves played around her hips. All this was good and well when you were hiding up the bank in the shrubbery, but the thought of being face-to-face with the woman and her hair was just a little … Isgrimnur kicked an innocent sapling into submission and then bent down to rip it out by the roots and added it to his pile of fire wood. How could he tell his father that his son was a coward? Afraid of a woman? He couldn't. He wouldn't. It was as simple as that. He wouldn't. An owl hooted and had to watch its prey scurry into the leaves as Isgrimnur shouted out his frustration.

It was a while later – some more trees had been uprooted, shoes had been thrown, a tree had lost almost all its bark to a series of vicious punches and there wasn't a single squirrel in an 1/8-mile radius that hadn't been felled by a cardiac emergency – and Isgrimnur was collecting a new pile of fire wood, sucking his burst knuckles, when a voice addressed him. It was deep and somewhat hoarse and it spoke Rimmerspeak in an accent Isgrimmnur hadn't heard before. “Are you quite done?” it enquired drily.

In the faint evening that was more shadow than light he saw that it was a woman, but clearly not a woman who inspired any kind of bragging nor intimidated shyness. He bellowed a laugh. “What do you want from me, wench?”

“I want to tell you that it is unwise to harm the plants and trees of this forest.” She replied serenely and her seriousness surprised him for a moment. He had first taken her for a lumberman's wife that had come to scold him for messing up her part of the woods and didn't recognize his insignia, but for the length of a thought there seemed to be more – something deeper or older – to her than that... until she said: “Strange stories are told about this valley and you would be well advised not to upset what might still dwell here.” He shook off the ridiculous thought with a smile and addressed her as what she was: “Good woman, I meant no harm. You have to excuse my temper. Is there any way I can be of service?

She stepped swiftly forward and her odour of wet feathers and moss washed over him. It was an unexpectedly pleasant smell. “Please, tell me where you are coming from.”

And so he came to stand with his armful of branches in the fading light and tell her about King John. He noticed that he couldn't keep his lips from smiling and his voice from rising with pride at having met the astonishing man. Carried away by his narration, the woman grabbed his wounded hand and held it tight as memories of the past months flooded through him and out of his mouth. The ancient Hayholt with its wide halls and hidden gardens, the white tower with its angel, the magnificence of John's sword Bright-Nail and the yellow bones of his throne. The battle of the Thrithings, the grim night that had lead up to it and the triumphant songs the night after. His own baptism and his first, halting prayer to the new god. His guilt and worries. All his thoughts and feelings, his longings and fears, everything he had seen and done since he had left Elvritshalla bubbled up in his head, sprang open like blossoms and then drifted down again, leaving him slightly exhausted but calm and smiling.

The woman stepped back and let his hand go. “Thank you.” she said heavily as if he had given her much more than just his story. Her eyes seemed brighter and her features more relaxed than before. He chuckled, amused by how simple things could bring pleasure to a simple mind and she added: “To show my gratitude I will help you with your problem. Follow me.”

She lead him through the trees until they reached a small, solid house. Once inside, the smell of bird and moss grew even stronger as it mixed with the flowery smell of dried plants and beeswax. “My problem?” Isgrimnur asked unsure, glancing at his injured knuckles as he set down the pile of wood beside her door, but the skin had sealed as neatly as if it had never been broken. Confused, he checked the rest of his knuckles and then the ones on his other hand, but they all looked the same.

The woman's voice shook him out of his thoughts. She was standing by the fire, rekindling it with one of Isgrimnur's branches. “There is something you have been rolling around in your head all these months. I saw it in your mind and I apologize for infringing your privacy. But I can help you, if you wish.” He caught her glancing down the length of his body and up again, the corner of her mouth twitching in a tiny smirk. “And it would not be out of gratitude alone.”

Isgrimnur averted his eyes uncomfortably. Her direct gaze had something unsettling. Looking about himself, he noticed strange instruments on a table in the corner. Unfamiliar symbols were painted on the walls and dark, ragged shapes were hanging from the ceiling. He didn't see any signs indicating the existence of a husband and was about to become worried for her safety - a woman living alone in the forest - when his eyes found her again and it occurred to him that it might be he who should be scared.

The weird smells, the stacks of bones in the corner, the flames painting demonic shadows on the walls and the suddenly naked woman standing in front of him – it all fell into place and he understood with shocking clarity that he had been caught by a witch. A witch who would use his body in a devilish, bloody ritual, if he didn't get out as soon as possible.

He stumbled back against the door and fumbled for his sword. His hands were sweaty with sudden fear and he felt her spell work paralyzing his movements, but a heartbeat later he had the sword out and was pointing it at her, breathing heavily and ready for defense.

But she had taken a step back as well and now stood with one hand propped on her bony hip, the other scratching her chin and regarded him as if he was an unusually colored mushroom that she was trying to identify, rather than a man threatening her with a deadly weapon. Unlike him, she was perfectly calm. Finally she shook her head, picked up her breeches from the floor and started to dress again. “I thought this might be something you wanted, but maybe it isn't.” she explained. “I apologize again.”

As if the sun had come out behind a cloud (if they had been in the open air, of course), the light changed and everything looked again as it should. The eerily flickering light had returned to being a regular kitchen fire and the dead bodies of animals that hung from the ceiling were now recognizable as bundles of peppermint and lavender. The piles of bones were in truth stacks of pale leather scrolls and the witch was once again the harmless lumberman's wife – most likely a widow, as he realized now – he had met in the forest.

Isgrimnur felt incredibly foolish for having thought her anything but human, and mortified for being scared like a little child. How could he have raised his sword at an innocent woman who had invited him to her home? It was a horrifying thought. He sheathed his sword and scratched the top of his head, looking down at the rush-covered floor. “Truly, good woman, it is I who should apologize.” he said with feeling. “I am ashamed for drawing a blade at you, and in your own house. I don't know what came over me. Did I frighten you? Please, forgive me. Are you hurt...?” He trailed off sheepishly. She was still looking at him, unharmed and with an amused smile on her face. She was still wearing only her breeches. It finally dawned on him what it was she had been offering.

If it had been an option to feel more embarrassed than he already did, he would have happily taken it. How would he tell his father that he had almost skewered the only woman who had ever offered herself to him? It drew a giggle from him and he sank against the door, shaking his head and hiccupping helpless chuckles. “It seems,” he tried to calm his breathing, “it seems I misunderstood your meaning.” 

“I can see that.” she grinned and, as if she had read his thoughts, continued: “My house may seem like a magical place to you, but I assure you that there is nothing unnatural about it. I am not a witch, at least not the kind you fear. I don't take offense, though. You may leave any time you wish, of course, but if you want to stay, you are welcome.”

Isgrimnur's brows furrowed, but his sword hand stayed relaxed. “The kind I fear? Do you mean you are a witch of some other kind?”

“I am a witch of some kind, yes, as I can do things that most mortals can't. But I won't harm you. Nor steal your hair or fingernails to use them in potions.” she added with a smirk.

“You know about magical potions?”

Her patience began to waver and she said briskly: “I know the tales your people tell about witches and I know that they are nothing more but that.”

He looked her over, trying to swallow all that. He had to admit that she looked neither like a witch, nor like a lumberman's wife. Her short-cropped hair and the strong jaw line gave her face something boyish, which he liked despite himself, and he briefly wondered how old she was. The contours of her body sprang in and out of the flickering light that the flames shone on her. She looked soft and vulnerable and at the same time unbreakable like a delicate gemstone. He wondered how her skin would feel to his touch. She wasn't Gutrun and she wasn't John, but despite all that had happened she seemed less intimidating than either of them. She seemed like a friend, simple and beautiful. Like something he wanted. He stepped forward and carefully placed his hand on her waist and the other one on her shoulder and then he kissed her.

She didn't pull back.

++

His men howled and slapped his back when they heard the story and Isgrimnur felt only a little bit ashamed when he caught himself exaggerating. What did his men know about the tenderness he had shared with the women in the forest last night? How could he tell them about her good-natured laugh at his awkward touches and the gentle pointers she'd given him, guiding his hand with her own? Her encouraging sighs when he had done something right? He would have had to tell them how much he'd enjoyed drawing those moans out of her and seeing her head roll back, exposing her neck. Of the pleasure of letting go and completely loosing himself in her, and of finally emerging, tired and content.

No, he wouldn't share this with his men. Instead he would join their triumphant laughter and, filled with a feeling of freedom and invincibility, turn his face to the bright, white sky, shouting: “Enough sitting and talking. Let's ride home!”

**Author's Note:**

>  _“If the bears do not eat you, it is home.” - Qanuc wisdom._  
>  In case you are shocked about how dreamy Isgrimnur is about King John, I apologize. When I wrote this I wasn't aware of quite how big the age difference is between the two.


End file.
